


All Wired Up

by DarkwingJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Amputation, Car Accidents, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:49:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5286104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkwingJones/pseuds/DarkwingJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an accident that he can't even remember, Dean Winchester loses his father and parts of himself--quite literally. As he struggles to come to terms with his new body and struggles through physical therapy, Sam decides to take the initiative and hire one of the world's leading humanoid roboticists to help Dean take control back from his tragedy. The only problem is that Dean has mixed feelings about becoming a cyborg, and equally mixed feelings about his weird, blue-eyed doctor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bye, Bye, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit rusty, so feel free to comment on characterisation.

It was too close to home. That's what they told Sam Winchester when his colleagues pulled him, screaming, away from the unmoving bodies of his father and brother in the tangled ball of metal that was the Impala. They radioed for another ambulance, keeping Sam at arm's length until he had calmed, or at least until he had calmed enough to grit his teeth until his jaw creaked with it and start barking orders at the EMTs who worked beneath him, throwing himself headlong into his familiar role as a paramedic.

When Benny met his gaze across the mangled, bloodstained front seat of the Impala, eyes wide and brows dipped low, Sam knew.

When the call for backup was cancelled, it was all he could do to keep moving.

 

* * *

 

When Dean Winchester next opened his eyes, it was dark and everything was fuzzy and warm. He groaned and lifted a hand to--ow, _shit_ , never mind. Blearily, Dean frowned down at his right hand and discovered the IV that'd been fixed there, along with the pulse monitor clamped to his finger. The fuck? Was he in a _hospital?_

Beside him, something shifted in the shadows, and a soft, feminine voice tentatively called, "Dean?"

Dean rolled his heavy head in the darkness--dimness, really, since he could see the twinkling of the city's radio tower beacon through the window that spanned the wall behind whoever it was--and squinted against the soft blue glow of the street lamps below as though they were the sun's rays, though he caught the shape of soft, pale curls. "Jess?" he asked, or, well, he tried to. The most that came out was, "J-- _hhck!_ " as Dean realized with a start that there was a tube down his throat. He was _intubated?_ He was honest to fuck _intubated?_ Panic made the beeping of the monitoring machines beside Dean come quicker and louder, and he started at that, too. What the _fuck?_ What the fuck was going on?

"Hey, hey, Dean," said Jess, reaching across his hospital bed to snatch away his hand as he tried to reach up to yank the damn tube out. "Shh, it's okay, shh. Dean. It's okay."

It's okay? It's _okay?_ Like hell it was! Dean wanted answers, damnit. Why was _Jess_ here? Where was _Sam?_ What the fuck happened?

" _Dean_. You need to calm down _now_."

His head whipped around--or did its best to whip, since Dean seemed to be moving at the speed of smell--to find Sam silhouetted by the (frankly blinding) light pouring in from the corridor behind him, looking like some sort of pagan god of hospital food and scrubs. Shit. Scrubs was bad. That meant that Sam had been _sleeping_ here, and sleeping here for god knew how long. Dean settled back down against the bed, both because the sudden movement of his head had made him acutely nauseated, and because the potent mixture of relief and guilt that washed over him made his arm buckle from beneath him and drop him gracelessly back against his pillows with a grunt.

Jess breathed a soft sigh of relief and offered Sam a small, bracing smile. The smile that Sam gave back was what Dean could only describe as sickly, as though the nausea that he were feeling was somehow being telepathically communicated to his brother.

Shit. Things were serious.

Sam kicked the door shut and came into the room to pass Jess the tray of cafeteria food with the ease of a couple that had known each other since before puberty made Sam's voice crack like a baseball bat, both of them moving in anticipation of the other. Sam carefully tugged Dean's pillow--which had slid down to the small of his back in the, ah, struggle--back up until it was beneath Dean's head again, taking the time to fluff it with his eyes on Dean's until his brother grunted weary satisfaction. There was that smile again--a smile that was more a grimace than anything--and Dean's stomach shriveled up and sunk all the way down to Bikini Bottom as Sam tugged a chair over, sat down, raked his fingers through his hair, and cleared his throat.

 _Ohhh, shiiiiit._ Things were really, _really_ serious. Dean closed his eyes, briefly, cruelly wishing he hadn't woken up. He didn't want to _die_ or anything, but he didn't want to know what the hell it was that Sam was dancing around. Whatever it was, he was sure that he wasn't going to like it.

"Dean?"

Grunt.

"Do you remember... anything? Anything that happened?"

Christ, he could practically hear the wince in Sam's voice. Dean grunted an, "Uh-uh."

His brother pulled in a soft, sharp breath. "Okay. Great," said Sam, in the tone of a man who had just stepped in dog shit while wearing $700 shoes and was waiting for death to claim him any second now. Sam sighed and Dean opened his eyes just in time to see Sam lean his head down into his hands, elbows on his knees, and scrape his hair through his fingers. Twice in two minutes.

Dean made a irate noise, or as irate as the tube let him sound. _Spit it out._

Sam straightened up and twisted his lips at Dean. _I'm trying. It's not easy._

Dean huffed, tiredly rolling his eyes. _Losing consciousness here, buddy. Make it quick._

Sam sighed. "Dean," he began, hesitating again only until Dean swatted impatiently at the bed and made Sam jump and scowl at him. The fact that Sam's signature bitchface didn't last long sent pebbles of dread skipping down into his stomach. "Dean. You were in an accident."

Dean snorted. _No shit, Sherlock._

"A car accident," Sam clarified, seeming to pull the words out like teeth. "With dad."

Everything around Dean seemed to go eerily still at that moment. Even the beeping of the machines seemed far away and seemed to come slower, and it was only then that Sam shifted in just the right way to let the blue lights from outside sweep across his damp, haunted hazel eyes. The dull roar that started up in his head quickly became of drum beat of denial, pounding _no, no, no, no, no_ to the beat of his heart. Dean closed his eyes against the rising swell of fear and anguish, trying his best to suppress it, to hear Sam tell him how their father was doing, because surely he couldn't be doing any better than Dean, if Sam looked like that.

Sam took another breath, and this one sounded pinched and pained, and the dam inside Dean bubbled and spat against his hold. "Dean," Sam said, silently imploring his brother to open his eyes, and--reluctantly--Dean did. He regretted it when he saw the tears slide down his little brother's face, and Dean was choking on a wail around his tubing before Sam had even finished saying, "He didn't make it."

When Dean Winchester raised his hand to shield himself from Sam's anguish and Jess's sympathetic look and found only a bandaged stump where the lower half of his left arm should have been, the dam within him burst.


	2. Hello, God? It's Me, Den Winhs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gross hospital realities to come.

They'd had to sedate him.

He couldn't move. After the initial waking from his coma--a fucking _coma_ \--and the weak, flailing struggle that he'd had with Jess in his agitation, he moved only enough for Sam to be able to hold him through his sobs until a nurse came in and gave him something through the IV before he could hurt himself any further. The next several hours bled into one another, and--slowly--Dean came to terms with it all. Their father was dead. He was missing at least half of one of his limbs, though he hadn't dared to check below the waist as Sam cradled him against his chest and hushed him through the sobs he couldn't control. Dean had never broken down like that, least of all anywhere near Sam.

When next he woke up, while blankly watching a nurse administer a round of painkillers and relaxing as it slowly swept away the "shattered glass under the skin" feeling that was growing in his groin, Dean took stock. His left arm had been amputated two inches beneath the elbow. His left leg had to be amputated entirely, mostly because the tree had made it a total loss by crushing it to a gristled pulp between its trunk and the Impala's interior, along with shattering half of his hip and pelvis, leaving him in a ridiculous cage of metal and screws that only left him exposed enough to be hooked onto urine and fecal drainage bags connected to what was left of his intestines. He had a fractured clavicle from the seatbelt, a collapsed lung from the left side of his ribcage all but imploding from the brush with 50 tons of hardwood, and skull fractures like a cracked egg from his head bouncing against the window and the Impala's interior, but it was the tree that had done the most damage.

The tree. They'd hit a fucking _tree_ \--wrapped around it like a goddamn _wedding ring_ \--and it had torn out its roots and added insult to injury by fucking falling on them. His father and half of his body gone, just like that. It was a miracle, after all was said and done, that he was even half as well off as he was. Sam said that it was his position in the Impala, twisted as though he'd been lounging or asleep against the window, was what put him in line with the tree crashing down onto the roof, but it was also why said tree missed his head.

Nah. That had been the roof's job.

Brain damage, Sam had said, caused by blunt force trauma to the head and bleeding in the brain that had caused him to have a fucking stroke. Hopefully, Sam said, this damage was only temporary, but even Dean knew they could never tell with these things. It was why, when the tube was replaced by a mask, he found it hard to speak. He slurred and found it difficult to find the words that he wanted to use, as though he had to wade through quicksand for alphabet fridge magnets to string them together. Speaking of the alphabet, he'd forgotten how to read and write. Something as simple as holding a pen felt as though he were trying to write with an ungainly brick; his fingers just would not respond the way that he wanted them to. Trying to write for the neurologist who came to see him had been an exercise in futility and a completely shameful experience to Dean, who couldn't even write his own name, or even remember how to spell it. He was pretty sure that he didn't know any 'Den Winhs', which is exactly as far as he'd gotten before both the neurologist and Sam noticed his mounting frustration and told him to stop writing.

He'd lost hearing in his right ear and part of his vision in his left eye, both from the impact of the Impala's caving roof and the passenger window he'd apparently hit so hard that it'd cracked. What vision he had left in that eye made damn sure that he paid for it with a strong case of photophobia, to the point where he needed to wear a black patch over that eye to block out all traces of light or else become nauseated and develop a migraine that felt like his eye had grown claws and was attempting to escape from the prison that had become Dean's body. (It only took Dean one slurring, halting, self-deprecating 'Peggy the Pirate' joke aimed at Sam to swear off of them; the pain in Sam's eyes didn't make that bitchface worth it.)

The very first people to visit him after he woke up, sans Sam and Jess, were the Harvelles. He and Sam had known Jo even longer than they'd known Jess--practically since Sam was still in diapers, and definitely when Jo still was--so when she stepped in and uttered a tremulous, "Holy shit," at the sight of him before rushing to his side, her mother Ellen didn't even have the heart to be scandalized. He learned later that this hadn't been the first time that they'd seen him, and it broke Dean's heart and sobered him up from his morphine fog when he realized that the dampness in the Harvelle womens' eyes came not because he was now almost literally half of who he'd once been, but because everyone had been beginning to doubt that he'd ever pull out of the coma.

He'd lost almost a month. Two weeks, four days, and nearly nineteen hours had come and gone since Dean's noggin decided to play pinball with the inside of the Impala, and he didn't even remember getting into the fucking car in the first place. And that wasn't the only gap in his memory, either. He had apparently won the world's shittiest lottery there and managed to get both anterograde amnesia thought to be caused by his stroke and retrograde amnesia from the blows to the head. That meant that Dean forgot what he had for breakfast and the name of his neurologist--Dr. Berry, Dr. Berry, Dr. Berry, he kept telling himself, and every time, he forgot--but it also meant that he forgot the date of Sam's birthday and the color of his own eyes. Small things to outsiders--after all, he remembered about ninety percent of his life, so he counted himself lucky--but they were things that mattered to Dean. Who would forget their little brother's birthday?

Ellen assured him that they'd been taking care of Sam. The Harvelles and Jess had double-teamed him to make sure he ate and slept enough, and Ellen had taken it upon herself to take charge of making most of the funeral arrangements. Dean's eyes had welled when she slipped into her quiet, mothering tone--a tone only reserved for those she loved when she knew they needed gentle hands--to tell him that the only thing he had to do was get better, and it made his lip quiver and his breaths hitch as she swiped her thumb beneath his one good eye.

Dr. Berry had explained that, too. She said that it was only natural after such trauma, both physical and otherwise, for Dean to experience such emotional upheaval; in fact, most people who suffer brain damage suffer some amount of emotional instability and personality change. She said that he might feel impotent, and he did. She said that he might feel grief, and he did. She said that he might feel guilt, and he did. The hardest and most important part, she'd said, was to remember that it could only get better from here on in.

Dean believed that. Sure. But being so low that the only way to go was up wasn't really a comfort.

Next to come, close on the heels of the Harvelles, was their Uncle Bobby. He didn't seem to know what to do or say around Dean, caught somewhere between affecting his usual bluster and being closer to tears than Dean had ever seen him. Every time he stared at Dean too long, his eyes would grow damp and he'd find something to fix or complain about around the room, going so far as to flip through the meager channel selection his hospital suite's t.v. had to offer and settling on some football game that Dean didn't care enough to follow.

If he was honest, for the first time since he'd woken up yesterday--was it yesterday? was it the day before?--he felt at ease. He had Jo to one side of him, holding his hand and stroking along the edges of the IV tape with her thumb. On the opposite side sat Bobby, poking through the tray of lunch the hospital had given him and muttering about cardboard and airline food as he cut the thick slab of turkey into more manageable chunks, clearly intent on feeding Dean. Lastly, beside and behind Bobby stood Ellen, smiling softly down at him whenever his gaze flickered tiredly up at her and running the tips of her fingers through what was left of his hair after they'd shorn it all off to get to his busted head.

Okay, so it was pretty fucking depressing. But if he had all these people here for him--if he could focus on not letting them down--then he could do it.

He was gonna do it.


	3. Quit Playing Games With My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the sudden Benny tag up there. These two side-raptored me while I was writing. If you don't know what side-raptoring is, just remember the, "Clever girl," line from Jurassic Park. If you haven't watched Jurassic Park, dishonour. Dishonour on you. Dishonour on your family. Dishonour on your cow.

The next few months would shame and humble Dean to his core. His entire family rallied around him after the accident, taking turns keeping him company in the hospital so that he wasn't ever alone for too long with his own thoughts. It took a lot out of Dean to realize that not only did he need to allow the nurses to help him, but that they'd been doing that and more for as long as he'd been unconscious. Damn near every nurse on that floor had seen his surgery wounds and his junk, and that was not a thought he relished. At times, Dean wished he was still unconscious, especially when having to stare at the ceiling as some young thing fresh out of med school gently scrubbed him down with what they called shower wipes.

He was exhausted what felt like all of the time. If he thought pens were hard to deal with, spoons were damn near impossible. His mouth felt like it was miles away from his hand, and it didn't help that his arm felt as though he had diving weights strapped to it and ached something awful. One of the most frustrating experiences of his life was when he'd tried feeding himself for the first time, only to keep missing his mouth and smear apple pie all across his cheek. (Which was a shame; for a hospital, they had damn good pie.) Therapy was little better. With it came the same sense of shame and frustration, but it also brought sheer determination to the forefront. Winchesters were not weak, especially not in front of people they hardly even knew.

He had a load of lip and tongue exercises to help with his enunciation and the quietness of his voice, sounding out lo-lo-lo's and na-na-na's until he felt like he was Eduard Khil yodeling to serenade his speech therapist. (Which was fine; he was encouraged to sing anyway.) They gave him exercises to stretch his arm and get his coordination back, and he even got electrical treatments to loosen up the muscles that the stroke had locked up tighter than a nun's chastity belt in a brothel. They had him pick up uncooked beans and stack coins of different sizes, which was easier said than done when you had the pincer grasp and coordination of a one year old.

On his next day off, Benny Lafitte--Sam's coworker and friend--swung by with boxes piled against his chest and a shy but sincere smile, presenting Dean with a hoard of board games like Scrabble, Scattergories, and Guess Who. Contrary to being upset by the interruption, Dean's occupational therapist--a curvy, spunky little cyborg by the name of Charity Brooks from the south side of Baton Rouge--was delighted by the gifts, effusively praising Benny for his thoughtfulness until the man chuckled, pink, and quietly demurred.

Dean learned three things that day. He learned from Charity that all of the games that Benny had brought would help him with his with his word retrieval, cognitive flexibility, categorization, mathematics, and a shitload of other things that he missed in her rush to get it all out, so excited was she about the apparent blessing that Benny had bestowed upon him. (Benny was all sorts of flustered, and it warmed Dean's heart.) He learned that Benny was a cool guy in his book--he was funny and blithe and had an air about him that made him feel as though he'd been part of their extended family for years instead of just the past eight months, and yet he was sweet and charming and polite to Charity, a woman he'd only just met.

He also learned that Charity spared _no one_ in the name of victory at Parcheesi.

Dean smiled and sat back, watching the two devolve into playful bickering over the use of a Scrabble word that quickly dove in and out of smooth, fluent French. Cyborgs were common enough in this day and age. After all, Dean wasn't the only amputee. Charity was a wonderfully open individual, offering information about herself as freely as flowers offered nectar to honeybees. She'd been born with tetra-amelia syndrome--a rare disorder that manifested in the absence of all four limbs and the malformation of several internal organs at birth. As such, about 70% of her body was cybernetic in origin, from her lungs to legs that looked as though they could crush watermelons between their thighs. All in all, she looked like any other woman, right down to the light dusting of freckles along the synthetic skin of her arms.

Not long after that, Charity glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped, scrambling up from the edge of Dean's bed so quickly that some of the Scrabble tiles went flying. "Shoot! Sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled, tucking her short, chestnut colored hair behind her ears and ducking down to pluck up the tiles that had made it to the floor. "I'm late, you guys, I gotta go. I got another patient to see."

"Well, scoot on outta here, then," Benny replied, slipping off of his chair to crouch down and sweep the remaining tiles out of reach of her hands. "I can take care of this."

"You don't mind?" she asked, though she shyly turned the tiles in her hands over to Benny when he gestured for them.

Benny smiled, blue eyes creasing. "Ain't no big thing," he said, smile widening into a grin when Charity blushed and smiled back.

Charity stood and gathered her things, thanking Benny and apologizing to Dean all the while. "We can play again tomorrow," she promised, glancing at Benny with a flick of her bright, hazel eyes.

"Sure," Dean amicably replied, though he couldn't hide the amusement in his eye. He watched as Charity pursed her lips, clearly caught out and embarrassed, and he chuckled as she hurried out. As Benny hauled himself back into his chair, Dean shook his head.

Benny eyed him, still smiling helplessly. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean haltingly replied, gesturing toward the door, "just didn't... take you for that kinda guy."

" _What_ kinda guy?" prompted Benny, one brow sliding up toward his hairline.

Dean shrugged, and immediately regretted it as his clavicle made him wince and have to fucking lamaze breathe through the jar of pain. He shook his head at Benny's look of concern, then smiled and said, "The ladies man kinda guy."

Benny snorted, looking away from Dean to put the game of Scrabble away. "I'm not. That was..." Here, he frowned in thought, but only ended up huffing a short laugh and reaching up to rub a hand sheepishly along the back of his neck. "I don't know what that was."

"Uh-huh," said Dean, entirely unconvinced. He couldn't resist the tease. "Love at first sight?"

For a moment, there was silence. And then, as Benny dropped his hand, "I don't know. Maybe."

Dean puffed a laugh of his own, though his was more cautious of all the broken bits inside of him. "You really... really believe in all that?" he asked, watching the way Benny looked up, blue eyes briefly locking on the door to Dean's room as though he could will Charity into coming back.

He wasn't prepared for the way Benny smiled at him then, lifting a little Scrabble tile to wave it at Dean in gentle admonishment. "Sometimes," said Benny, carefully placing the last tile back in the box, "you need a little faith. Everybody believes in somethin', friend. Everybody. Maybe I didn't believe in it _before_ , but I ain't dumb enough to close my eyes to somethin' that might be right smack in front of me."

Dean shook his head, grinning behind his oxygen mask. "Yeah, whatever, Confucious. Pass me the Battleship so I can kick your ass."


	4. Kiss the Cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments fuel me.

"Slow down, Dean. You're gonna hamstring yourself."

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes up toward the mesh of the lanai above him as he brought the back of his foot up to touch his rump. "I thought you said you'd supervise, not criticize." He could feel his little brother's eyes boring into the back of his head like laser sights, and he could just imagine the way that Sam's nostrils flared, comeback flying to the tip of his tongue.

Luckily, Jess was there to break them up before the real bickering started, sweeping out of the house in a butter yellow dress over her bikini. "You've only got one leg left, Dean," she pointed out as she carefully made her way to her husband's side, offering Sam a cold can of coconut water that he accepted with a warm--if concerned--little smile. "Why are you going to hurt it by doing something you know you shouldn't be doing?" Jess took Sam's hand and used it to help herself down onto the tiles beside the pool, controlling her breathing until her butt touched the ground and her bare legs slipped into the warm pool water. When she succeeded, she sighed and leaned against Sam, trading tender smiles as Sam returned her coconut water and slipped an arm around her to stroke her bulging belly.

Begrudgingly, Dean turned around in the pool, hooking his left arm over the edge and reaching down into the water with his right hand to massage down his remaining thigh to work out the ache of his slightly overenthusiastic physical therapy exercises. It had been almost a year since the accident, and Dean was almost fully recovered. He still had to wear a patch over his eye and his hearing aid was sitting on top of his secondhand, large-print copy of The Road, but the doctors were surprised at how quickly he'd adapted. When he'd been well enough to use a wheelchair, Bobby had given him a custom motorized one he'd built nearly from scratch, making it exactly to Dean's specifications so that it molded perfectly to Dean's body. It was this that Dean hopped toward now, bringing down the pool lift and perching on the lift chair as it hauled him clear out of the water.

In the ten and a half months since the accident, Sam and Jess had gotten married, Jess had gotten pregnant and branched out into her own law firm as an attorney-at-law, and they'd bought a house with two master suites--one for them, and one modified for Dean. They were a power couple that put every other Dean knew to shame, and despite their assurances (and reassurances, and reassurances of reassurances) to the contrary, Dean still felt like a burden and a blemish on their otherwise perfect life. They'd gone out of their way--bent over backwards, even--to accommodate him, and Dean couldn't help but feel as though he could never repay them.

As he hauled himself out of the chair life with the aid of a crutch, Dean's expression soured. _Way to be ungrateful, Winchester,_ he groused, hopping about-face to plop himself down onto his wheelchair. He started a little as someone tugged the beach towels that he'd layered on the chair a little higher, making sure that he didn't dampen the seat with his back. Dean tipped his head back and grinned, looking up into a pair of smiling hazel eyes. "Thanks, Char."

"No problem, sugar," said his old occupational therapist, coming around to take Dean's crutch and hook it into the back of his chair. "You want one burger or two?"

"Mmm, two. Worked up an appetite in there."

Charity laughed, tossing a towel over Dean's head and twisting to look toward the smoking grill. "Hey, _bébé!_ Dean-boy wants two!"

Benny was about the only one who didn't jump at her sudden loudness, smiling serenely from where he was turning a roasting cob of corn. "You decided how much you want yet, _ma fée?"_ he called back, laying two burger patties on the grill and wiping his hands on his apron. (It was a deep brown color with an mushroom decal and the words 'Shiitake Happens' on it; Dean thought it was fucking hilarious.)

Charity hummed, though an impish smile was creeping onto her face. They all learned early on that the professional sweetness she'd exuded had been just that: professional. Sure, she was sweet as sugar, but she was also a Class-A Little Shit, which Benny seemed to appreciate just as much as--if not more than--Dean; in fact, she seemed to bring out the mischief-maker in the man. "I don't know," she said in honeyed tones, wriggling out of her own sun dress and toeing out of her sandals. "You should know that it don't matter how much meat there is as long as it's thick."

Jess choked on her coconut water, Sam barked a startled laugh, and Dean almost busted his newly-healed guts laughing, though he wasn't the only one. Benny was laughing helplessly, shaking his head and chuckling, "No, I don't."

"You don't?" Charity sweetly replied, fluttering her lashes over her shoulder at her boyfriend. "Why, I could'a _sworn_ \--" Charity's shrieking laugh was swallowed by the water as Benny all but tackled her into the pool, shoes and all.

Sam gently clapped at Jess's back as she coughed and laughed, a pleased, lopsided grin on his face. He was flustered by the humor and the fact that there was now a bit of coconut water in the pool courtesy of an impromptu spit-take by his pregnant wife, but he was always happy to see Jess laugh. He watched as Dean wheeled himself away from the pool as the two lovebirds surfaced and started to play-fight, the thumb of his other hand gently running along the lip of his glass of smoothie. "Hey, Dean," he called, watching his brother fiddle with his hearing aid and patiently waiting until it was in to repeat himself. "Dean?"

Dean whipped his head about. "Yeah?" he prompted, eye fixed on his brother.

Sam smiled, a fleeting, nervous thing that immediately piqued Dean's interest. "I've been thinking--"

"Uh-oh."

"Shut up. I've been thinking," Sam said again, recovering from his bitchface with a more open, hopeful look in his eyes. "Maybe it's time I made you an appointment with a cybernetic roboticist."

Dean frowned, though in his peripheral vision, he saw Charity freeze and look anxiously between the two brothers. "A who now?"

Sam pursed his lips, clearly annoyed at having to 'dumb things down', as Dean called it. "A cyborg doctor."

"Oh," said Dean, startled and defensive in turn for reasons he couldn't quite identify. "No."

Sam's brows flew up. "'No'?"

"Yeah, no," said Dean, pushing the towel on his head down onto his shoulders. "Why would I need to go to a cyborg doctor?"

"Oh, I don't know, to become a cyborg?" One of Sam's brows dipped, though the other climbed as he gestured toward the sliding glass doors. "You hate your prostheses. You say so all the time. That's why you left them inside again."

Dean's frown deepened. "I don't think _anyone_ likes their prostheses, Sam."

"Lots of people like their prostheses just fine."

Dean narrowed his eye, bristling. "Okay, so, I don't think _most_ people like their prostheses. That doesn't mean I need to run off and become a _robot_."

" _Hey_ ," snapped Charity, clearly stung.

Dean grimaced; he hadn't meant to say it like that. "Sorry, Char." Charity nodded, though she tucked against Benny's chest as he rubbed her back and kissed her dripping hair. Dean turned his attention back to Sam. "I'm doing just fine."

Sam pursed his lips. "I'm not saying you're not, Dean. I'm just saying that maybe you'd be happier if you didn't have to strap on a leg every morning. They're still prostheses, Dean. Just built-in."

"They're really good," Charity cautiously put in, hurt but wanting to help. "And the transition'd be easier, since you're full-grown."

Sam's eyes lit up, and he made a 'you see?' gesture toward the woman in the pool as his eyes zeroed in on Dean. "A consultation. That's all I'm asking. Just talk to the doctor. See if it'd work for you."

Yet again, Dean grimaced. He didn't like feeling like he was being irrational. "No strings attached?" he ventured, stubbornly trying to maintain the higher ground while simultaneously looking as though he'd sucked on a lemon.

"No strings attached," Sam replied, puppy eyes hammering the final nail in the coffin of Dean's reluctance and resolve.

Dean groaned. He owed Charity a _huge_ apology.


	5. Back to the Future

When the fated day came upon him, Dean felt that he would rather someone punch him straight in the balls than be accompanied by Sam. He'd already been roped into agreeing to make the consultation. The last thing he needed was to have Sam there beside him, nodding like a bobblehead and being a bit too enthusiastic for Dean's liking. He had to give credit where credit was due, though--Sam had done a fine job of making sure that Dean didn't up and skedaddle at the first opportunity. After calling to set up the appointment, he'd only circled the date on Dean's calendar--a physical one, which Sam complained about being antiquated--and scribbled in the time and address, like a wild animal trainer throwing a slab of meat and running away with their fingers crossed.

The thought made Dean huff with amusement, momentarily distracting him from the frustration of trying to do up his tie. He'd only made the decision to dress up that morning, not wanting to show up to the appointment dressed like a slob. He'd show them. He didn't need to become a robot. He was capable. He was put-together. He was... really starting to hate this fucking tie. With an irate growl, Dean tore it away from his neck and tossed it onto the floor, puffing out a harsh breath and rolling his shoulders in the mirror. So he wouldn't wear a tie. Big deal. He was still wearing slacks, a nice shirt, and good shoes. That was enough. It would have to be.

Sam had loaned him his car for the occasion--a tiny little leaf green solar cruiser with a horn that sounded like a moderately ticked-off Road Runner. He'd opted to wake early and take Jess to work in her car, which was where he was when Dean stepped out of the house and locked the door behind him. As he slid-- _ow_ , fucking _shit_ , what _was_ it with these tiny cars and their tiny fucking doors? He needed a concussion right now like he needed one of Sam's hokey health drinks--onto the driver's seat, Dean rubbed his scalp and muttered, easing his legs inside and slamming the car door shut with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.

Right. Cool. Time to drive off into the city nestled in the equivalent of a cardboard hamster wheel.

He fired up the anti-grav and backed out of the driveway, smoothly easing the little hover-buggy into the surrounding traffic. As his fingers tapped the steering wheel when he was faced with his first red light of many, Dean couldn't help but think of his father and the Impala. Despite how much he hated this tiny little wind-up car, he was grateful to Sam for loaning him the solar cruiser and not Jess's larger SUV. The cruiser--a pitiful little two-seater with enough trunk space for Dean's self-esteem--was about as opposite to the Impala--a large, heavy, antique 'wheeler'--as you could possibly get. It made it easier to deal with the nagging little voice in his head that always seemed to pop up whenever he so much as stared at a car for too long.

John's death was his fault.

Their father had been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes since before Dean had ever been born, so Dean was no stranger to being John's caretaker after their mother died in a house fire when Dean was nine. It had taken John until Dean graduated high school to get his shit back together enough to take care of himself, but neither Dean nor John trusted John enough to remember to stick to his routine on his monthly fishing trips, so Dean always came with him. It was quiet on the lake. Time slipped by like water between your fingers, so it was up to Dean to remind John to check his levels and take his insulin. Dean had never minded; he'd gotten to spend some time with his dad--gotten to know the man behind the grief--and clean up whatever mess there was between John and Sam if John had decided to showcase his emotional constipation recently.

If he tried, he could remember the fight that a bass had given him--a big motherfucker that had knocked Dean flat on his ass--and John's laughter ringing through the trees around the lake. That must have been why he'd fallen asleep on the drive back. Why he hadn't seen the warning signs--signs that John would have stubbornly refused to lay any real importance on. He was fine, he'd have told Dean. He could drive a little longer. Didn't want to stop on the side of the road and 'shoot up like a heroin addict'. ("For fuck's sake, Dad," Dean would have said as he had so many times before when the need struck at inconvenient times, "it's medicine, not black tar. You need this shit to live, now shut up and eat this granola bar.")

Hypoglycemia, the coroner reported. A sudden and devastating plunge of his father's blood sugar had sent John Winchester into convulsions, making his stiff limbs slam down on the accelerator. Sending them headlong into that tree with all that the Impala could give. Died on impact, said the report. A small mercy, and entirely preventable, if Dean had only been awake. Sam didn't blame him, of course. He was too good for that. But Dean blamed himself. Oh, did he ever.

He should have been there, should have nagged at John until he'd pulled over and taken his insulin. Then maybe he'd still be alive. Then maybe he'd have been there at Sam's wedding, smiling and tearful and proud, instead of a seat reserved at the front row empty of anything but a silent video-frame of a four year old Sam running into a laughing John's arms before Mary twisted the camera around and slid up beside her husband with Dean tucked against her legs, all of them smiling as the image stilled and looped all over again.

Dean blinked his eyes back into focus at the sound of a horn blaring behind him. The light had gone green, and he was stock still, cars moving around him like water around a rock. He pursed his lips and roused himself, offering a distracted wave back to the driver behind him as he shifted the cruiser back into traffic. _Good job, Winchester,_ he thought bitterly. _Cause another accident, why don't you._ He berated himself all the way to the clinic, hyperfocusing on driving and stubbornly shoving all thoughts of what-ifs and wherefores out of his head. Dean chose a parking space by the door and carefully lowered the car to the ground before shutting off the anti-grav entirely and turning off the engine with the press of a button, looking toward the gleaming, two story building with a sigh. _Time to get this over with._

With one last look at himself in the rearview mirror, Dean stepped out of the car and walked toward the lion's den.


	6. A Warm Reception

Dean's first impression of the clinic was that it was immaculate. Every surface gleamed in the warm incandescent lighting that seemed to suffuse the waiting area, making Dean feel as though he'd walked into a posh country club instead of a sterile clinic. Soft, modern pop music crooned away through speakers that Dean couldn't see, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. A receptionist sat behind the front desk, lightly tapping away at an old-fashioned, physical keyboard and shaking shaggy black hair out of equally dark eyes. Eyes that looked up and honed in on Dean.

Figures he'd be the only other soul in this place. Dean took a breath to steady his nerves.

" _Jesus_ ," breathed the receptionist before Dean could slap on his best schoolboy smile. "Who'd you have to kill for looks like _that?"_

Dean's brain stumbled and fell headlong onto the floor. "Buh--what?" he eloquently blurted, lashes flickering.

The receptionist grinned, shaking his head dismissively and reaching up to his flexiscreen to tap a series of bleeping buttons. "Dean Winchester, right? Dr. Novak's 8:30?"

Nodding dumbly, Dean approached the desk, folding the sleeve of his shirt back to reveal the identification tattoo on his wrist. He ran it under the scanner when prompted, concentrating on the odd, pink light. 'Who'd you have to kill?' Dean grimaced, flicking his sleeve back over his tattoo. His father, apparently.

"The doc'll see you in a few," said the receptionist, brushing his hair away from his face and pinning it back with a glittered clip. He was a young thing, maybe in his early twenties, solidly built with light olive skin and an accent that Dean couldn't place. Cute kid, all told, though Dean wasn't really interested in treating a clinic like a club.

Yet again, Dean nodded, though this time he managed a small smile, gesturing toward the keyboard. "Don't see those anywhere anymore," he said, leaning against the desk on folded arms. It was either make conversation with the prettyboy or sit next to the fish tank, and he'd rather have had doe eyes staring at him than fish eyes, thanks very much.

The receptionist beamed, lifting the little board up like the world's flimsiest treasure. "I like pressing physical buttons better than the ones on flexi- or holoscreens. It's why I'm not allowed to go in the back anymore."

Dean's brows flew up. "What'd you do, blow something up?"

The man across from him cackled, throwing his head back with it, and Dean felt the scales tip firmly in the receptionist's favor. "Something like that," he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye, setting his keyboard back down on the desk. "Gazzer Mackerty," he grandly announced, holding out a hand that revealed a braided bracelet dangling around his wrist. Dean thought it might be a friendship bracelet, since it sported two lettered beads and an ampersand between them. (The G was self-explanatory, but who was the M?)

Dean grinned back at him, taking his hand and shaking it. "Dean Winchester, but I guess you already knew that."

"Yep," Gazzer replied, placing his chin in his hands, his elbows on the desk, and opening his eyes wider as if to drink him in.

Dean felt himself flush, heat creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Say, Gaz--can I call you Gaz?--between you and me..." Trailing off, Dean flicked his eye toward the hallway leading into the back and leaned in, asking, "Is the doctor any good? No complaints, no gruesome disfigurations or people dying under the knife...?"

Gazzer smiled slow and syrupy, looking up at Dean from beneath his lashes. "Off the record?" he murmured, making Dean wet his lips and twitch a nervous little smile.

"Off the record," Dean lowly assured him, taking an ACME mallet to the urge to add an exception to the it's-a-clinic-not-a-club distinction. He could feel warmth pooling in his stomach like molasses, and it was taking every ounce of him not to just break eye contact and admit defeat to this unexpected challenger.

"The doctor's really good at what he does," whispered Gazzer with a sly, sultry look, pulling away to twist back toward his screen as footsteps echoed down the hall, "but it's the _receptionist_ I'd be more worried about."

Oh, fuck. Oh, _damn_. Nope. No. No, no, no. Dean closed his eyes, conjuring up every single nasty image he could fathom in order to keep himself from saluting the flag in front of his potential new doctor. Beside him, Gazzer chuckled low in his throat like a fiendish cluck of delight, and Dean could have happily throttled him if he wasn't halfway sure the minx would like it. In that moment, he vowed revenge.

"Dean?"

That... was a female voice. Dean opened his eyes, turning his head to see a petite, bubbly little redhead who seemed as excited to see him as a puppy.

"Down, Charlie," Gazzer drawled, though the man clearly looked and sounded amused.

Charlie scowled at Gazzer, hugging her tablet to her chest. "You're one to talk," she griped, narrowing her eyes at the man. "Stop messing with the patients."

"Who's messing?" asked Gazzer, eyes wide and affecting guilelessness.

Charlie snorted. "Whatever," she said, obviously not buying the act for a minute. And then her eyes were on Dean again, sparking with warmth and excitement. "Come on back, Dean. The doctor's ready to see you."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "Great," he replied, pushing away from the desk and following Charlie. Behind him, Gazzer chortled. Dean tucked an arm behind his back and flipped the receptionist off. Gazzer laughed. Charlie looked over her shoulder and Dean smiled widely, earning himself a raised brow and a quirk of the lips.

Boys.

There were only a handful of offices back here, though the one she led him to was by far the biggest, easily taking up half of the modest-sized building's ground floor. There were dozens upon dozens of drawers and shelves, each housing parts and pieces and tools, along with a complicated set-up of machinery. One of these machines--a tube-shaped device that reminded Dean of the capsules used to deliver business documents--held an apparently unconscious, nearly-naked man suspended in some sort of light, numbers and figures flickering across monitoring screens at lightning speed.

Before them sat a scruffy-looking man looking placidly back and forth between the screens and the man in the light-tube, holding a slim headset to his ears. Dean couldn't hear what he was saying at this distance, but he could tell that the man's voice was deep and low and gravelly, speaking soft but clear commands to whatever system his computers were running. Whatever he said made the light dance and shimmer along the unconscious man's body, centering around certain areas of his pale skin like technicolor starbursts. Charlie watched quietly as the man--apparently the doctor--hovered his sun-darkened hands over the touchscreen before him, squinting thoughtfully at something that he heard over his headset.

The doctor hummed, brows dipping low and bow-shaped lips pressing into a thin line. Dean couldn't tell what emotion he was having until the doctor jerked a tiny nod in satisfaction and swiped a few things hither and tither, ceasing the spectacular light show but leaving the unconscious man suspended in nothingness. Dean frowned as the doctor set down his headset with an air of finality, eye flicking between him and the tube. What, was he just gonna _leave_ him in there? Dean's brows flew up as the doctor turned to face him, revealing a face that could have been carved from marble and the most preturnaturally blue eyes that Dean had ever seen.

"Hello, Dean," said the doctor, voice carrying far enough to lance right through Dean's diaphragm and leave him momentarily incapable of drawing breath.

Somewhere in the back of the void that suddenly called itself his mind, Dean wondered who this man had had to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry. Charity and Gazzer and the dude in the tube are all original characters of mine that are years old, and you're likely to meet many more of them as the story goes on. Rest assured, though, Dean/Cas is endgame. I just have to wade through all these other people cropping up.


End file.
